


the morning will save our souls

by leadbitter



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Bristol Rovers F.C., Fluff, M/M, kind of Hurt/Comfort but not really, post-bury
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-18
Updated: 2017-03-18
Packaged: 2018-10-07 11:13:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,406
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10359162
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leadbitter/pseuds/leadbitter
Summary: “we’ll be alright, yeah? it’s one loss, clarkey. we’ve had a good run, but it was bound to end at some point. we’re fine.”“i know.” ollie says faintly, because he does.





	

**Author's Note:**

> set post-bury 
> 
> probably a shit ton of grammar mistakes, but its midnight and I cba to check through
> 
> title from 'cinnamon' by jome
> 
> if you got here by googling yourself, do yourself a favour and go

You curse the referee and you curse Sincs and you curse Bury.

 

(The last two aren’t fair, not really.

 

You’ve seen the replay, and there isn’t a chance in hell that Sincs dived. Even if you hadn’t of watched it, you would’ve known anyway: Stuart Sinclair and diving don’t belong in the same sentence. They never have.

 

Bury played a fair game, and even you know that. Their penalty was bullshit, and that was mumbled by half the lads wandering through to the changing room, but apart from that, they were a quality side.

 

You think you played alright, but sometimes, these things just don’t go right.)

 

It was stupid, arrogant even, to think that this unbeaten run would go on for ever, that they’d keep this up for the rest of the season. The defence cracks and goals fall through and sometimes a good goalkeeper just isn’t enough.

 

In the end, you can realise that this is one game out of so many. The gaffer says that you’re all putting too much pressure on yourselves, that you need to relax and enjoy the rest of the season. And you trust him, the supporters trust him.

 

*

The dressing room isn’t quiet after full time; you’ve been here 2 years, but it didn’t take you more than four games to recognise that, win or lose, someone’s always piping up, keeping the spirits up. It’s Manse for when they’re at home, and James at away games, but today it’s Monty, filling in for the injured party. He’s bouncing around and shouting across to Locks, bantering off about some shit pass he may or may not of actually made.

 

You strip off your kit, slowly, as if you have all the time in the world, when really all you want is to get a nap in at the hotel before the four hour round trip back to Bristol in the early morning. You feel lucky that the gaffer has deemed the match too late in the day and Bury far enough from home for an overnight stay, at least.

 

Usually, a kip on the coach ride is the best you’ll get.

 

 

*

 

 

Darrell decides last minute that you’re not going to leave until afternoon the next day, so you lie awake in your bed at 2am, not even bothering trying to sleep, heavily aware of Monty snoring away in the other bed.

 

You fiddle around with your phone for a bit, observing the Gashead's reactions on twitter (you breathe easy when the majority of them don’t blame the lads or the gaffer, but the ref, who according to most of them, was the equivalent of someone who’d never seen a football game trying to referee), debating whether to tweet something that is sickeningly optimistic.

 

You decide against it as soon as your phone starts softly bleating _Tote End Boys_ (something the boys made fun of for weeks after finding out, but you think it’s nice), the screen displaying _ollie_ and a series of emojis.

 

Your breathing steadies as you click accept and Ollie’s voice rings through your ears, lilting and familiarly West Country.

 

“S’not supposed to lose, Bill. You know that.” He speaks softly, and you know what he’s trying to say: _I’m sorry I wasn’t there._

 

“Yeah, well,” You say, surprisingly eloquently despite the time. “Midfield’s not the same without you.”

 

“Shut up.” He responds and, although you’re not with him, you know he’s hiding his face. “You barely play midfield anymore.”

 

You smile gently to yourself and remind him: “An attacking midfielder is still a midfielder.”

 

“Alright, alright.” Ollie grumbles. “Forgot you were the expert.”

 

He doesn’t say anything for too long so you say, “Sincs isn’t playing on Saturday.”

 

You say _isn’t_ as if he has a choice in the matter; you really mean _can’t._

 

“Yeah,” He replies quietly. “That was a bullshit red. Sincs doesn’t dive.”

 

“S’what i said, but the ref didn’t like that much.”

 

That gets a chuckle out of him, at least.

 

You’re quiet for a moment, trying to gather your thoughts. “We’ll be alright, yeah? It’s one loss, Clarkey. We’ve had a good run, but it was bound to end at some point. We’re fine.”

 

“I know.” Ollie says faintly, because he does. He’s been here longer than any of you, of course he knows. Bristol Rovers is his club, in some ways more than Linesy. Relegation killed him, and you know that, even if you were playing with Torquay at the time; Ollie has told you about it so many times, sometimes you forget you weren’t in the team against Mansfield that day.

 

Promotion kept him alive, kept him playing and passing and scoring, and Christ, are you glad for that.

 

You listen to each other’s breathing down the line, soft and calm. Ollie was relaxing in ways that sleeping could never achieve.

 

He breaks the silence. “Forgot to ask,” Ollie speaks, vaguely sheepish. “How’s James? What actually happened?”

 

You curse yourself quietly, momentarily guilty that you forgot about James, who was still in hospital.

 

“Fuck Ol. Nearly died, didn’t he? The bastard.” You wish you were joking.

 

“Jesus,” Ollie murmured. “What was it, injury?”

 

“His fucking nut allergy.” You sigh. “Got into the system somehow. They’re saying that another half hour and he would’ve been dead.”

 

You hear Ollie suck in a breath. “But he’s fine now, isn’t he? He’s recovering?”

 

“Yeah. Still in hospital, but DC’s saying he’ll be alright.” You shake your head. “Can’t fucking believe it.”

 

Monty shuffles in his bed, and you glance over. He turns back over, snoring, and you breathe out.

 

“Fuck, if that was you Bill.” Ollie trails off. You pull your sheets higher up around you and roll onto your side, suddenly feeling chilly.

 

You huff out laugh, despite the cold feeling spreading through your body. “Don’t have a nut allergy, you dope.”

 

You can practically feel him rolling his eyes. “You know what i mean. Idiot. What would happen?”

 

“You’d be alright,” You insist. “If that was me, i mean. You’d live and I’d live. It’d be fine.”

 

In the end, it sound like you’re trying to convince yourself that _this_ doesn’t mean as much as it does.

 

You’ve both been dancing around this all season, neither willing to start the conversation. Because you _like_ it like this, and you’re sure Ollie does too; never really talking about it, just _doing._

 

But this was the perfect opening, and maybe you should start communicating, rather than assuming.

 

“Bill-”

 

“Ollie-”

 

You say it at the same time, and you can hear Ollie laughing softly down the line, and you smile despite yourself.

 

“You go first.” He says, so you do.

 

“Ollie,” You begin, losing a bit of your nerve. “What is this? Us, I mean. What are _we_?”

 

“I- I don’t know.” Ollie stutters. “Whatever we want it to be, I s’pose.”

 

It’s not enough.

 

“But what _do_ we want it to be?” You persist, because you’ve started now and you might as well finish. “What do _you_ want it to be?”

 

“Well, it’s complicated, innit?”

 

Ollie’s giving you half answers and you don’t want to argue, so you just reply: “I s’pose it is.”

 

It isn’t, though. It’s the easiest thing in the world. You’re not sure how to say that without sounding silly.

 

Neither of you talk for a while, wasting minutes listening to each other’s heart beats, ignoring the obvious.

 

“I’m sorry,” he says weakly. “It’s not, is it?”

 

“No.” You agree, glad he said it and not you.

 

“It’s more than that, isn’t it? We’re more than that, right?” Ollie hesitates. “Yeah, Bill?”

 

“Yeah.” You agree again, your heart beating so loudly, you’re surprised it hasn’t woken Monty yet.

 

“We should talk about this tomorrow,” Ollie murmurs. “When we’re in the same region, yeah?”

 

“We should.” You whisper to him.

 

Neither of you are willing to leave the line, but you know you should at least get _some_ sleep, and god knows Ollie should too. You’re not even sure why he was awake at this time, although you faintly hope it’s because of you.

 

“I’ll see you tomorrow, yeah Ol?”

 

“Yeah,” He pauses. "Love you.”

 

You breath in sharply, heart bursting out of your chest. “Love you too.”

 

And the line cuts out.

 

You drift off to Monty’s ever-increasing snoring, clutching your phone, smiling so wide that you’re surprised to find it in one piece when you wake up.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> -man this was a trip to write  
> -right so rovers lost 3-0 to bury away on 14/3/17, breaking their nine game unbeaten streak  
> -stuart sinclair got sent off after getting two yellow cards for diving (which was complete bullshit by the way. I've seen the replays and contact was definitely made)  
> -the ref on the game was complete shite and really biased and that's the pure truth  
> -ollie missed bury as he was on a two game suspension after picking up his tenth booking at oxford  
> -ollie clarke is the longest serving player at rovers currently and experienced relegation to the conference, promotion straight back to league 2 at wembley, and promotion to league 1, all in 3 seasons.  
> \- i know, bristol rovers is a banter club  
> -james clarke did actually nearly die because of a nut allergy at bury, and he actually would of been dead given another half hour (the ref failed to notice this as well. I know, what a twat)  
> -he's alright now, and making a full recovery  
> -monty is the legend himself, cristian montano  
> -I think that's all I have to say
> 
> xx eve
> 
> tumblr: [stoneims](http://stoneims.tumblr.com/)  
> 


End file.
